The Golden Horde (20 page)

“Now know this,” said Amragan
tarkhan
, abruptly all business. “The Ilkhan Batu has determined to experiment with a new way of ruling the Rus. Direct government by
daru
-
gashi
, the military governor with a garrison at his disposal, is wasteful of men, of time and of revenue.”

“How revenue?” It was Strel’tsin who asked that, as of course it would have been.

“The
daru
-
gashi
must organize the taking of a census, so that the proper proportion of taxes may be levied. Your superstitious common people believe that the taking of a census has to do with listing their souls for the Evil One, and murder our census-takers.” Amragan
tarkhan
made a gesture of despair at such foolishness. “This even though we made certain to leave those who till the soil alone, so they could grow their crops for us as well. When order is restored, there is often a long delay before taxes and grain may again be collected from that district.” Ivan winced, not wanting to know what blood and slaughter lay behind those simple words. “So,” the
tarkhan
continued, “it has been decided in the wisdom of the Khan, that rulers of domains as yet undisturbed may remain there. Rulers who fled before us and who have now returned may be restored to their former positions.”

“Such as the Great Prince of Kiev?”

The Turk looked at Mar’ya Morevna and smiled slightly. “Which one? Yuriy Vladimirovich, who was ruler before the Horde came to Russia? Or Danyil Yaroslavich? Him I saw myself at the Golden Court in Sarai, putting his case before the Ilkhan Batu.”

“What case is this?” asked Ivan cautiously. Amragan
tarkhan
seemed happy enough to talk now, but having witnessed the Turk’s mercurial swings of mood the young Tsar was much more leery of asking questions that might seem indelicate.

“This Danyil claims that the resistance made by his brother Rostislav against us was not by his command, that he would have submitted and opened the gates, and that therefore he is entitled to rule Kiev again.”

Ivan whistled softly between his teeth. “The brother Rostislav he mentions as his entitlement to succession usurped the throne from Great Prince Yuriy in May of the very year the city fell to the Khan’s army.”

Amragan
tarkhan
wasn’t impressed. “Then let this Yuriy come to Sarai and contest the claim,” he said simply. “The Ilkhan Batu will hear all sides of any argument, so long as peace is observed.”

“Peace? In Russia?” Ivan laughed hollowly, aware that he might be treading on thin ice once again; but he also knew the minuscule likelihood of any quarrel between Princely claimants resolving itself without fighting of one degree or another.

“Peace,” repeated Amragan. “The Ilkhan Batu will not countenance private war in his Khanate. He follows the wise precept of the Great Ancestor Chinghis-Khan, who said: ‘
In
war
be
tigers
,
in
peace
be
doves
.’ And you Princes will learn that, soon or late.”

Clearing his throat, Ivan stared at the armoured Turk and tried to judge the man’s temper at the moment. It seemed reasonable enough right now, so he cleared his throat again and said, “Amragan
tarkhan
, before I took the crown I was a Prince and a Tsar’s son; now my right and proper title is Tsar.”

“No. Your title is still Prince.” The
tarkhan
cast a thoughtful eye at the fur hat which did duty for Ivan’s crown. “Call yourself Great Prince, if you wish it – but not Tsar. So speaks the Ilkhan Batu.”

“Why?” The question was as blunt as Amragan
tarkhan
’s denial had been, and the two men studied one another as if engaged in swordplay, each searching for some sort of opening. Ivan was well aware that the Tatar envoy had far superior force at his disposal; but at the same time he had to know why the title he bore, the title borne by his father and his father’s father back through generations, was so arbitrarily set aside.

The Turk sighed, evidently impatient with the stubbornness of this Rus for whom the simple word of the Khan was never enough. Ivan guessed that the man’s easiest solution was to have him rolled in a carpet and smothered, or stamped to death by his guards to avoid the spilling of royal blood, as so many other lords and rulers had been executed; but there was the matter of that granting of hospitality, the gift of bread and salt at the city gate. Amragan
tarkhan
had probably been insulted, defied, bowed to, even pleaded with, but it was almost certain he had never before received the simple courtesy of a stranger welcomed after a long journey.

“Understand and remember, so you do not ask such foolish questions when you too come to the Golden Court at Sarai,” the envoy said briskly. “All other Rus lords are content to style themselves as
knyaz
, which is to say ‘prince.’ You of Khorlov have long styled yourselves
tsar
, and that is ‘Caesar.’ Emperor. ‘Khan’ is also emperor, and the Great Khan is emperor above all others. He, not you. From this day forward, call yourself a Prince like all the others, and be content.”

“And why should we come to Sarai?” asked Mar’ya Morevna . “In your own words, ‘
rulers
of
domains
yet
undisturbed
may
remain
there
.’”

“Yes.” Amragan
tarkhan
tipped back his head in a haughty manner and studied her down the bridge of his long falcon’s-beak nose. “Yes indeed. Very like a woman of the Tatars. Even to the refusal to listen properly so as to make better space for her own observations.” Though she sizzled at that, Mar’ya Morevna kept quiet – which to Ivan’s mind, having seen his wife in this sort of mood before, was some sort of minor miracle and a considerable achievement on the Turk’s part. “Those rulers may remain in their domains, lady, once the Ilkhan Batu has given his approval for them to do so. But in token that they rule by his consent, they must leave the tokens of their right to rule in his keeping, at the Golden Court of the Golden Horde in Sarai.”

Mar’ya Morevna made a small sound at that, a gasp three-quarters stifled so that it might as easily have been a sneeze. Ivan knew well enough that it was nothing of the sort but, not knowing what had provoked the gasp, didn’t react. “Tokens?” she said after a moment, carefully disinterested. “What sort of tokens would these be?”

“Crowns, sceptres – the regalia that you of the Rus need to identify the lord of a domain.”

Tsar Ivan glowered, thinking he knew now what was troubling his wife. The Tatars were rendering those they left to rule no more than puppets; literally so, since the right to govern resided more in crown and sceptre than in the man or woman who wore and wielded them. The bearer changed from generation to generation, either peacefully or through the many acts of violence that could befall a monarch, but the royal jewels that passed from hand to hand and head to head remained the same. For almost a hundred years after the founding of the realm – by an adventurer of the North people more successful than his fellows – the crown of Khorlov had been nothing more than a grim, functional helmet, worn complete with its iron nose-piece. Later it accumulated gold, jewels and all the other elaborate ornaments that made a crown more than just another hat; but even now, under all its decoration, Khorlov’s Great Crown was helmet-shaped in token of the Tsar’s power to rule and to protect what was ruled. Without it – Ivan thought of puppets again – he was no more than a scarecrow of sticks and rags, propped up on the throne to keep the place from someone better.

Rubbing her hands together as though they were sticky, Mar’ya Morevna looked again at Amragan
tarkhan
. “And how many, let’s say crowns, yes, how many crowns have been gathered in Sarai so far?”

The Turk thought for a moment, his lips moving as he went through the unfamiliar names of Rus Princely states in his head. “Twelve,” he said finally. “The crown of Khorlov will be thirteen.”

When Mar’ya Morevna went white and carefully crossed herself, Ivan knew something more than just the loss of Khorlov’s crown was badly wrong. That she said nothing about it told him that it had something to do with the Tatars and their collection of crowns in Sarai, but though he racked his brains to think of whys and wherefores, he could dredge up nothing that might fit the facts. Amragan
tarkhan
was saying more, this time about Ivan’s own reputation and about Koshchey the Undying, but the Tsar – let the Tatars call him what they pleased, he was and would remain Tsar of Khorlov even if nowhere than inside his own head – paid the envoy no further heed.

“Your pardon,
tarkhan
,” Ivan came out of his seat at once, moving hurriedly to help his wife to her feet, “but my lady is unwell.”
Or
pretending
so
to
get
us
out
of
here
,
at
any
rate
. “There’ll be a banquet in your honour later today. We can talk about public matters of less importance then.”

The Turkic
tarkhan
didn’t get up; instead he waved an indolent hand as though he owned the great Hall and the kremlin around it, and was granting Ivan permission to leave. A small snarl pulled at the corners of Ivan’s mouth, though that might have been mistaken for effort when supporting Mar’ya Morevna’s weight. Handing her over to Volk Volkovich, who had kept remarkably quiet during the entire conversation, Ivan nodded to one of Guard-Captain Akimov’s lieutenants near the doorway of the hall.

“My guards will see you and your companions safely to the gates of the city,” he said and, whether the envoy liked it or not, his tone was that of regal dismissal. “And so you know for later,” he added, “armour isn’t usually worn at my table.” Amragan
tarkhan
was silent for a few seconds while he puzzled through the levels of what had just been said, then his laughter followed Ivan all the way out of the hall.

*

As soon as they were in the courtyard beyond the Hall of Audience and out of sight and sound of its menacing occupant, Ivan grabbed Mar’ya Morevna by the arms and shook her with the desperate violence that betrays real fear. “Hell and damnation, Mar’yushka! What’s the matter with you?”

She stared back at him with huge-pupilled blue eyes, terror barely concealed in their depths, but her voice was back under complete control. “Hell and damnation,” she echoed, “is a very real possibility.”

“Would someone mind explaining to me what I’m so obviously missing?” demanded Dmitriy Vasil’yevich Strel’tsin pettishly. “After what that accursed Turk was saying, I think that —” As a large hand came down heavily on his shoulder, Strel’tsin abruptly shut up.

“And
I
think, First Minister,” said the Grey Wolf in a voice that was much less human than Volk Volkovich usually sounded, “it would be a kindness if you found something to drink. And four cups.”

Strel’tsin gave the big man an odd look for, along with lying, alcohol was a human failing which Volk Volkovich didn’t indulge. This time however there was a troubled look about his tanned, ruthless face suggesting he was more than willing to break his own rule. It was a look that said the Grey Wolf knew only too well what was troubling Mar’ya Morevna. “Yes,” the First Minister said, “something to drink. Yes, at once …”

There was a wooden bench on the sunny side of the courtyard, a pretty thing fretted with silhouettes of birds and beasts from old tales, and while Strel’tsin was off about his mission of mercy, which in Tsar Ivan’s Khorlov wouldn’t take him very long, Ivan and the Grey Wolf helped Mar’ya Morevna to sit down. She was trembling, a fine muscle tremor as if she’d been doing hard physical work rather than the sort of racking shudder Ivan had expected. It was only after a few minutes with Ivan on the bench beside her and Volk Volkovich squatting nearby on his haunches, that he realized the tremor came less from the terror in her eyes than from a frantically suppressed desire to grab Amragan
tarkhan
and his shaman companions and beat some sort of sense into them one at a time and all together.

Dmitriy Vasil’yevich returned bare minutes later, a rather chipped stoneware flagon in one hand and four turned-wood drinking bowls in the other. “Honey vodka,” he said by way of explanation. “From one of the guards.” The old councillor smiled one of his rare, withered, but strangely sweet smiles. Dmitriy Vasil’yevich had outlived both his wives and all seven of his children, and smiling wasn’t something that came easily to his lips any more. “He was on duty and wasn’t supposed to have it, and I agreed not to see it. Provided he let me take it with me.”

The herb and honey vodka wasn’t chilled as it should have been, and it wasn’t even a particularly good blend, but the alcohol slammed into their throats with all the heat that anyone could have desired. Except possibly Volk Volkovich, who coughed rackingly after the first swallow and wiped those wolf’s eyes of his, whose dull yellow glow had been dimmed somewhat by a sudden overflow of tears. “I don’t know what you see in this snake-venom,” he said wheezily. But he held out his empty bowl for a refill nevertheless.